“Hey gramps,” I say.
“Liam, son.” And already I feel a little better. He listens quietly as I unload into the phone everything that’s been weighing on me. He hums affirmations when due and waits for me to let it all out. “Son,” he says in his low, comforting voice. “Doing the right thing isn’t always the right thing to do.”
No One Has Ever Died from a Tiny Speckle of Paint . . . or the Mother of All Pangs in the Heart
“Food delivery, ma’am,” Jesse announces, presenting the takeaway bag in his hand as evidence.
“Punctuality is everything,” I say with a matching smile to the easy one he’s sporting.
I lock up the studio and pile up the last cans of paint, the old sheets I used as floor protection and paintbrushes in the basket mounted on my bicycle. Three smaller rooms, a bigger room, the little office, and the foyer, double-coated and freshly light-pink painted. Phase one of the studio makeover – complete!
I pull my hair up in a bun and nod at Jesse, signaling we’re good to go. Jesse’s eyes run over my paint-splattered jean coveralls to my face, an assessment that ends up in a smirk. “Your face is full of speckles of paint, you goof.”
I don’t even bother rubbing it off. “Don’t you think pink is my color?” I ask instead of attempting to wipe it off. I strike a pose, brushing a hand over my spotty cheek.
“Glamorous,” Jesse says and chuckles.
“Well, no one has ever died of a tiny speckle of paint,” I add on a shrug. We walk leisurely side by side, Jesse carrying our lunch and me rolling the bicycle by my side, as we head to my apartment.
“Wow, I can’t believe I’m done with the paint job,” I say, quite impressed by my determination and will power. I’m rather exhausted, what with staying for a couple of hours more every day to paint a little after full days of teaching. I was more than enthusiastic to finish the project and equal part grateful to be occupied. Fewer thoughts wander to a certain person who left me a little heartbroken. The studio, as well as the girls and Jesse, provided such pleasant distraction. I’m immensely grateful to each one of them.
“You sort of wore yourself out, but not gonna lie, place looks great,” Jesse says. “It looks like it belongs to you now. You gave it much more character,” he adds and then grimaces playfully. “Don’t ever tell grandma I said that. I’ll deny everything.”
I laugh in response, saying, “Wouldn’t dream of it.” The smile still plays on my lips as we turn the corner to my apartment building. I do a double-take and said smile freezes on my lips just before, putting it plainly, it collapses. My mouth hangs a little in tandem to the pang to my heart. Well, it’s not a pang really, more of a full-body, violent reaction.
Jesse, confused by my sudden pause, follows my line of vision to the few steps at the entrance and the person sitting there. I just stare for a few stretched beats. Still. Silent. At the steps, with a dusty large duffle bag by his side, clothes that have probably seen better days, hair in much need of a haircut, with a well-formed short beard, sits Liam.
Shaking off the initial shock, realization dawns on me, kicking my heart up to my throat. The thing is, my mind sort of came to terms with the fact that if someone doesn’t see my worth I should let this someone go. My heart, it seems, didn’t get the memo.
Liam stands, his eyes lighting up in marvelous blue at the sight of me. His features crumble not a beat later when he notices my companion. Stare locked with Liam’s, I reach for my bag and fish out the keys to my apartment. I turn to Jesse with the keys, hand him the set and say, “I’ll be right up.”
Jesse cocks his head, wordlessly asking, “You sure?”
I nod in confirmation and he walks to the door. I release the kickstand with my foot next. Well-aware of Liam’s eyes on me, I lean the bicycle to a stand and with a typhoon in my stomach, walk calmly toward Liam. While trying to ignore the jitters his eyes on me cause, I take a seat on the stairs and he sits back down next to me.
I don’t invite him up.
I don’t hug him warmly like I want to or would with any other friend.
I keep enough space between us.
Truthfully, this coolness I’m portraying is a real act of resistance.
“Welcome back,” I finally say in a leveled tone, giving him a sidelong glance.
He smiles, his stare still boring into mine. His stupid, familiar and utterly missed smile makes me edgy. “Hi,” comes out soft, sweet, and intimate.
There’s a tense silence between us as he watches me while my eyes run over his duffle bag and move on to roam over his somewhat disheveled yet attractive appearance. The tension is an overstretched rubber band on the very verge of snapping. “Did you come here directly from the airport?” I ask.
His stare never averts from mine. He licks his lips and nods, “Yeah.”
I drop my gaze to my shoes. My turn to nod. I force myself not to read into the little tidbit and swallow over the nervousness that’s lodged in my throat. “Have you been waiting for long?”
He gestures at what looks like two empty cups of coffee from the café at the corner. Another notion that has a direct effect on my belly. “How are you?” Liam asks.
I lift my eyes back to his. “I’m good. Been busy working hard, giving the studio a bit of a facelift.” I gesture to my coveralls.
His lips tip and his eyes dance as he follows my gesture. “You look great.”
I roll my eyes.
“You look cute,” he corrects over a chuckle. “Messy looks good on you.”
He’s about to ask me something, but I interfere his flow with, “How was your trip?”
His brows pinch. “Wow, that place is like nothing you’ve ever seen. It was different, intense, depressing, heartbreaking, fulfilling, surreal. Such an experience. The kind of thing that stays with you forever.” Coming back from a momentary stupor, his stare on me intensifies. He takes a deep breath, seeming troubled, as though having an internal battle. He throws his thumb in the direction of the building behind us and asks, “Are you guys—”
I cut him off before he’s able to complete the question. “Having lunch? Yeah.” It’s an inward game of tug of war, one part of me wants to tell him there has been no one else, the other wishes to keep him in the dark.
Liam drops his head in defeat and nods to himself a couple of times, his thumb and finger come up to pull at his bottom lip as he contemplates. I can hear him take his next breath before turning to me, utter tension marring his features. “Anna,” my name comes out a bit hoarse. “Are you and him, are you seeing anyone?”
For a silent, tense stretch we stare at each other. “No, we’re not. No, I’m not,” I finally say.
The relief washing his face is hard to describe. It’s like a few good pounds were just lifted off his chest. He thinks for a moment. Then he parts his lips, about to say something, and snaps them shut. His brows squeeze, and he finally says whatever he’s been inwardly debating. “I’m sorry.”
I look at him, waiting for him to elaborate on the sudden emotive apology.
His eyes hold mine as he resumes, “The last time I saw you I nearly kicked you out of my bed. And the way I treated you, I’m sorry.”